


Maybe we found love right where we are

by GwenChan



Series: Maybe it's destiny, maybe something else [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, FrUK, FrUk_Relationship, M/M, Marathon Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6893632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Arthur and Francis are getting adjusted to be soulmates and they spent a day of sex, love and cuddling together. Because sometimes it's all you need.<br/>[Missing moment of "It feels like enough"]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe we found love right where we are

**Maybe we found love right where we are**

 

Sometimes Arthur thinks that Destiny surely has fun playing dices with human life. Sometimes he stops to think, maybe after a long day spent in front of the computer – and it’s so easy to use it now that he can see colours – with eyes crossing and a principle of headache in the middle of his forehead, that it cannot be possible that, with seven billions people inhabiting the globe, Francis Bonnefoy is his soulmate.

Instead, things are exactly like this and the problem is he’s starting to get adjusted to the idea. Actually, he’s already surpassed the phase of simple acceptance. It was that first salty kiss of their to make him understand this.

After that first kiss, Arthur spends the rest of the week avoiding Francis. His colleagues don’t ask questions. They are used to the almost-couple’s continuous quarrels. They know that for some days Arthur will keep grumbling and throwing in the trash any kindness the other will use to be forgiven and that, finally, for a reason or another, they will make up.

This time, however, is different. This time the only reason that encourages Arthur to avoid Francis is the awareness that they may seriously end making love in the first available empty room, if only they remain near each other more than few minutes.

So he avoids him, messages and phone calls included, up to Friday evening, when he taps on his mobile’s keyboard: “Tomorrow, my house. Eleven in the morning?”

The thumb up and the rascal emoticon that winks make him blush up to the roots of his hair and understand that Francis has perfectly grabbed all the allusions of the text.

The first time they make love it isn’t gentle. Not in the traditional sense of the adjective, at least. Still, it’s neither violent. It’s intense, fast, dense with carnal desire – and more – that doesn’t leave space for any foreplay.

It happens that, when he hears the doorbell ringing, Arthur jumps on his feet like a wind-up toy. It isn’t the first time since he’s woken up, a couple of hours before, since anxiety has already begun to cause him hallucinations.

This time, however, it isn’t his imagination. He gladly thinks so, while he rushes to turn the doorknob for eliminating temporarily that piece of wood called door that is keeping him separated from the thing – person – he’s desired for a damned and so very long hot July week. He has just that much of self control to look Francis in the eyes for a moment and to tell himself that, damn it, he doesn’t know how and he doesn’t know why, but yes, it’s what he wants. He cannot decide if it’s love or the fact they’re soulmates and so it’s destiny or something else.

It doesn’t matter. Arthur pounces on the other in a passionate kiss that normally wouldn’t be in his nature. He locks hands behind his neck, raising on tiptoes to cover that few centimetres of height difference, and pushes himself against the other who doesn’t waste time in putting those arms of his around his back, grabbing the cloth of Arthur’s T-shirt.

“Are you sure?” Francis asks, interrupting the kiss. Arthur nods. Yes, damn it, and he couldn’t be surer.

“Where’s your bedroom?” Francis continues. But Arthur has already attired him, muttering that his bedroom is too far for his liking.

Francis gives him one of his wicked smiles, just to fuel the fire, before inverting positions and pushing him with back against the wood of the door, whose knob threatens to stick in Arthur’s side. After all he too wants some healthy, simple, intense sex, especially considering that, since he knows Arthur – since he has recognized him as his soulmate – he’s been absolutely faithful.

Thus, he engages him in a new humid kiss and a game of tongues that Arthur doesn’t escape. Then he goes down whispering something unintelligible in the crook between neck and shoulder, where Arthur feels a tickle.

Now, Arthur’s a romantic person, only that his romanticism is shier and more moderate, made of words reserved to loneliness and to gestures to be kept secret. Above all he tends to put romanticism and sex on two different layers.

Especially in that occasion.

When Francis places a couple of fingers on his lips, Arthur doesn’t need further instructions to open his mouth and letting the digits sneaking inside, caressed by warm tongue and still careful to not cause him any discomfort. Oh, the erection in his boxer has started to be annoying and the images recalled by those fingers in his mouth only worsen the problem.

In a rush Arthur reaches out to free from buttonholes the three buttons of Francis’ jeans, while the man grabs together the elastic bands of his lover’s sweatpants and boxer to lower both garments at once. Finally, he takes out the fingers, now saliva-slick, from Arthur’s mouth.

“Hurry –hng,” Arthur moans when the first finger finds its way inside him. He clings on Francis’ shoulders, digging nails in the fabric. His legs have begun to tremble, more and more, and they threaten to not hold his weight anymore. He pushes forward his pelvis, sinking face in the other’s shirt.

Just the time to get used to the intrusion, to start to almost take pleasure from it, that a second finger follows the first one and Arthur thanks the presence of the door that more or less keeps him straight on his legs.

“Are you ready?” Francis asks with a solicitude Arthur finds absolutely inappropriate. He presses his forehead against the other’s collar bone, nodding. He moans a “yes” that loses any trace of coherence when the other, taken out the fingers, pushes his member against his hole, penetrating him with a violent kidneys shot. A painful discharge travels along Arthur’s backbone, from ass to the base of the cape. His eyes are filled with tears. His eyesight fogs up. Too long seconds follow during which no one moves a muscle, especially Arthur, who’s tense and frozen for the intrusion. Then the grab on the other’s shoulders starts to loose and Arthur makes Francis understand he can go on, gasping for air because meanwhile his lover has grabbed his sex in his fist, touching the tip with slow circular movements.

The first time they make love the embrace lasts few minutes. It’s more similar to a booty call, and Francis needs just few pushes to reach orgasm, in a silence interrupted only by a half groan. Arthur instead cries when the other makes him come and sags against him. He gasps, confused, with cheeks on fire and thighs wet with sweat and semen.

Then Francis gently kisses him on the forehead and along the jaw line. He moves away sweaty tufts from Arthur’s forehead, pulling aside that bangs kept long to hide the caterpillar-eyebrows, and smiles, in a mixture of sincerity and gratitude.

“So, your bedroom?” he asks for the second time and Arthur lazily lifts an arm above his head, to indicate a vague point on the left. He rubs against him, almost purring, trying to hide his face in the crook of the neck, pretending some post-coitum cuddling. A cuddling Francis has every intention to give him. He just thinks a bed would be more comfortable.

Finally Arthur decides to squeeze out of the hug. Before going to the bedroom, he insists to pass by the kitchen.

“What? I’m thirsty!” he mumbles, hiding his purple-coloured face with a transverse hand under his eyes. He opens the fridge, takes an orange-juice box from which he drinks directly, closes the door of the household appliance.

It’s the first time that Francis sees him almost totally naked from behind, the first time he can watch that slim, inviting ass, partially hidden by the T-shirt Arthur’s still wearing. Damn it, he’s arousing again.

When Arthur turns to face him, oblivious, innocent and therefore even more provocative, with a train of orange juice tricking from the right corner of the mouth down to chin and neck, Francis cannot resist from grabbing his cheeks, licking that trail of juice and kissing him with almost animalistic heat.

He makes him turn, grabbing his hips with maybe too much violence, and they end consuming there the second round, with Arthur pressed against the table edge and spread on it.

When the embrace ends, Francis deposits a series of kisses under Arthur’s right ear, to apology. Then they find themselves sitting on the cold kitchen floor. Francis has his back rested against the fridge, Arthur’s abandoned against his lover chest, held by his strong arms.

He turns his head as much as the neck allows him for a new languid kiss, made of game of tongues and biting of lips.

Among things, it’s almost noon, at least according to the oven clock. Now, Arthur wouldn’t be hungry, but he considers himself a responsible person and he knows that when they’ll put a foot in bedroom, they won’t exit until their desire will have ended. That will take hours, he knows. He knows also his body requires energies. So, having communicated his plan is a sweat muttering, he sits with crossed legs on one of the chairs, with the T-Shirt pulled down as much as possible to cover his nakedness.

Normally Arthur wouldn’t even slightly consider the idea of sitting at the table, which needs to be washed, to eat half-naked an oily salad leftover, while Francis – also naked with except for an apron – is transforming three eggs found in the fridge is some kind of omelette from his home country. All accompanied by comments like “do you only eat preheated food?” and “when was the last time you went buying groceries?”

But that is not a normal day. Half-eating a day-old slice of bread, Arthur wonders if it is that – eating lunch naked between one making love and the other because, why not? – that waits for him if they decide to go living together. Or if it is only because it’s the first time and, above all, what are his feelings on the subject. He hates to admit it – he will never admit it out loud – but in the end he likes it. It causes a strange feeling in the chest, like a puff in the heart, something that makes him smile and lower eyes, like he always does when Francis flatters him.

So, after having eaten, thrown in the bin plastic cutlery and dishes and put in the sink the pan dirty with egg, Francis grabs Arthur with one arm under the knees and the other around the side, carrying him “bride-style”.

“What are you doing? Put me down” Arthur protests, trying to find the right angle to hit with his elbow his companion’s ribs or breastbone. But it is useless and he isn’t even that much convinced.

“I just want to bring you to the bedroom” Francis justifies himself, laughing against his ear.

“Hmf.”

He holds on his lover’s neck like a little monkey, clinging with legs around his basin, when he stops holding him for just the time needed to open the bedroom door. Finally.

Arthur has moved in the apartment only few weeks ago. He has just started living alone – he can still hear the wicked comments made by his brothers - so he hasn’t had the time yet to make the home really his, bedroom too. On the floor near the door there are still half-open boxes full of numbered books waiting for being replaced on the bookcase against the opposite wall. A little window makes the ambient less suffocating.

Two posters – a landscape and the poster-photograph of a concert – hide a spot of humidity slightly above the bed, whose green sheets (mint-green, so gloriously green – green has become Arthur’s favourite colour recently) that smell nicely are pulled aside to reveal the mattress ready to welcome Arthur’s body.

Arthur half-closes his eyelids, not caring if he is seducing or just ridiculous, and reaches out to grab Francis’ hair. His companion places himself on him, resting on knees and forearms to not get him too much and caresses a cheek, not speaking because words are not needed. Arthur rubs against the open palm and smiles. Since he’s the kind of person almost always serious and grumpy, who rarely smiles, when he does it’s like he can light up the room alone. Francis tells him so and Arthur shrugs, turning head on the side. This time, however, he doesn’t tell him to quit with damps. Not this time, because after all damps make him smile. They make him feel good and for the day he’s willing to fill his ears with compliments and damps and honey-dripping phrases.

Bringing arms to cross behind his lover’s back, he tries to lock legs around his waist, as much as the flexibility of his body allows him and to rub their basins together.

“There’s a useless piece of clothing, raise your arms” Francis orders and Arthur obeys, stretching limbs behind his head so that his T-shirt can be removed and thrown somewhere in the room.

“Better?”

“Absolutely.”

Francis makes his tongue leap outside the lips, licking them, while he watches Arthur’s now exposed chest, from the laver between the collarbones, to the flat and slim abdomen, to the lower belly where ash-coloured hairs – slightly darker than Arthur’s hair – grow at the basis of the sex.

Under his eyes Arthur, who diverts the sight and tries to hide his face against his shoulder, he’s so beautiful he feels his chest clench. And he’s his, only his, his to hold, caress, possess. He scrolls down hands in slow caresses along the lover’s sides, up and down, smirking in feeling him melt under his touch.

“I love you.”  
“Quit t-“ Arthur is about to reply, but the words die in his throat as Francis has started tormenting a nipple with his teeth.

“D-ah-mn” Arthur tries to say, but the tongue playing with his nipple prevent him to communicate in a manner different from moans and breathing.

“Ple” – Francis lifts him that much to grasp ass with cupped hand – “as-hng”  
For the third time his tongue refuses to collaborate. Arthur arches his back in feeling the other’s fingers massaging slowly his testicles. He produces a hiccup sound, with eyes fogged by pleasure, every time his companion grab that delicate and sensitive area. He feels his hard erection between legs and it’s almost painful.

“Do something.”

Francis gives him a humid kiss on the lips, before repositioning himself between Arthur’s thighs.

For some time Francis has fun tormenting him, nibbling a portion of skin he discovers to be particularly sensitive considering how Arthur’s legs jerk without control when he touches it. Then he decides to give his attentions to the body area that really needs them. He licks Arthur’s member tip, enough to elicit some higher moans, then he welcomes it in his mouth, with a single sure fluid movement. Arthur’s sweaty fingers paw the mattress. He rolls hips, full with the pleasure the other’s tongue on his sex causes in him. He wonders for which unknown reason he has waited months to feel _that._ It’s something wonderful that sends warm shivers all-over his body at every pulse that damn mouth provokes.

“I’m about to-“ he tries to warn. Too late, as he releases without giving the other the time to move away. Luckily his lover doesn’t seem to care and swallow his semen, as it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Sorry.”  
“Hush, don’t say anything.”

Arthur sighs. Francis is kind enough to ask him if he can go on and Arthur nods, with cheeks red for embarrassment, because seeing the partner licking fingers makes him feel opposite feelings.

“Next time I’ll bring lube. Real lube” an amused Francis mutters, before kissing him. “You ready?”

Arthur nods, grabbing on Francis’ shoulder blades, even if he’s stiffing in anticipation of the intrusion. It will be painful.

“I’ll go slow” his soulmate assures, carefully inserting the index finger in his entrance. Arthur bucks his pelvis in a half-voluntary movement. Quickly Francis adds medium and ring finger, pushing in and pulling out, in and out.

“There, da-ah-mn hng it” Arthur cries when Francis touches on a spot inside him that makes him feel an electric shot of pleasure and sends coloured spots dancing in front of his eyes. Something about the prostate, he thinks, remembering parts and portions of sex-ed in high school.

He wishes to feel again that and he’s soon satisfied, when the other slides inside him. He moves in a clean and precise way, balls-deepen in his body. Arthur doesn’t take much time to adequate to the lover’s imposed rhythms. His legs are locked behind his back and his nails leave reddish half-moons every time his prostate is touched.

The orgasm takes them by surprise and they lay, breathless, next to each other, cuddling, with hearts beating loud and their chest going up and down while their breaths returns normal.

A nice numbness follows. Arthur sinks his face in his soulmate’s crook of the neck, rubbing against his body and sniffing his smell, among sweet phrases whispered on the lips and silly giggles.

That day they make love seven times.

The fourth time they jerk so much they fall off the bed on the floor, in a tangle of mint-coloured sheet, which are balled and soon tossed away.

The fifth time they are interrupted by the doorbell, ringing with bossy insistence. Both of them would ignore it, occupied as they are with far more pleasant activities, but it seems that someone has glued himself to such doorbell. It has been ringing for minutes, with a terribly annoying ear-piercing noise.

Thus Arthur resolves to get up, putting on inside out his sweatpants, still where he left them in the morning, and to open the door. He finds himself face-to-face with the spinster gossipy neighbour – the acid woman who’ll see forever the world in black and white – has heard them screaming and believed terrible atrocities were being committed. Her clear, watery eyes get thinner with disapproval when she notices the trail of clothes spread all over the floor, from the door to the kitchen.

“No, no, it’s all right!” Arthur assures, bare-chested and with hair messier than usual. He slams the door in her face, to prevent further questions.

“Who’s there?” Francis questions, now hugging him from behind. Arthur leans his head back to watch him in the eyes, stretching out hands to grab his cheeks

“The annoying old harpy who lives next door” he answers, faking an offended pout. “She believes I was torturing someone.”

Francis catches the earlobe with teeth. “You are torturing me.”

They both burst laughing so much they drag one another on the floor, in an absurd tangle of arms and legs and caresses and kisses and love bites and deep, regular thrusts.

They begin to find a rhythm together. Every time Francis pushes into him, Arthur feels like his world is destroyed and reconstructed. And he wants more and more.

The sixth time happens again in the kitchen where in theory they should’ve drunk something – Arthur believes to be a responsible person – but they end doing something else entirely.

The seventh time is the sweetest. It’s quiet and full of a kind of drowsiness that shoves under Arthur’s eyelids while Francis caresses his back.

“Stay” Arthur whispers. It’s not a question.

“I hoped you asked me.”

Arthur frees an arm stuck under the other’s side to prevent numbness and cuddles, closing eyes.

When Arthur wakes up he’s alone in the bed and a kind of sadness fills him. However it quickly disappears when he notices the post-it attached on the door.

“Shopping,” it says, making him grump and laugh at the same time.

The squared blue-electric figures on the alarm announce it’s eight and three minutes. Shrugging he sits on the board of the bed, rubbing with knuckles his crusted eyes and passing a hand in his blond tufts. The room’s a bit stuffy.

For a moment he caresses the idea to succumb to the gravity force and to let himself fall again on the pillow. It seems so welcoming at the moment. Then he mentally counts up to sixty and stands up.

“So, where are you at?” he digits on the mobile keyboard, while he kicks dirty clothes and sheets in a ball against the wall.

“Half an hour. Queue” it’s the answer that glows on the screen, with the classic “boing”. It’s a time Arthur can use to do some tidying. He throws the window open to change air, he shoves the laundry in a plastic bag, destined to the Laundromat. He changes sheets, careful in eliminating all wrinkles.

After that he goes to the kitchen, when he washes the pan still left in the sink. He wipes crumbs and pieces of salad from the floor. He energetically scrubs the table with a sponge soaked with hot water and ammonia to eliminate any encrustation of semen. He rubs also the hallway floor. All with stomach rumbling, because actually he hasn’t had dinner.

Finally he sneaks under the shower, to wash away all the traces of sex from his body and clear his thoughts. The day before has been something strange, unexpected, in a time outside time. Now all the simple gestures he does are a way to reconnect with reality. He thinks so, rubbing hair with a towel, while a trail of strawberry-flavoured toothpaste – Arthur’s the type of person who loves children tastes, even if it has to remain a secret – leaks from his mouth. He even gargles. Finally he puts on clean sweatpants and T-shirt and is presentable again.

When he hears the house door open, Arthur is boiling water for his morning tea and stiffs. Until he remembers how he must have told Francis about the spare keys in the cookie-jar in the kitchen.

He hears the dull thud of a shopping bag put on a chair, followed by his soulmate’s head posing on his shoulder, tickling him with the stubble-covered chin

“You must be crazy for going shopping on Sunday.”

“Emergency situations require drastic measures.”

Arthur pouts, but he turns his head when Francis holds his chin to engage him in a new tender kiss.

“Leave some water for the coffee.”

“You know I hate that stuff!”

“But I like it.”

He waits just the time for Arthur to finish preparing his cup of tea, then he pushes him from the cook stoves.

“Trust me, it’s better if I take care of the food.”

Obviously Arthur protests, but when he sees the breakfast – butter bread, crepes, and eggs – he knows better. He puffs, tormenting already scrambled eggs.

“You aren’t hungry?” Francis asks. He now knows that when Arthur picks his food in that way is because something worries him and when something worries him, even if he’s difficult, he’s just waiting for someone to investigate the cause.

“Something wrong” he asks. A quick Ping-Pong of “yes” and “are you sure?” follows, until Arthur sights in his own cup, blowing out a: “Do you think it can work? With you and me, do you think it can really work?”

Francis takes a sip of his coffee and doesn’t answer, because he knows the pause Arthur has made doesn’t require an answer. It’s just a simple parenthesis between various considerations in a single monologue.

“I mean, you have a list of flaws I could fill a notebook with and if we live together I would have to bear them any damn day and I’m a gentleman – Francis chuckles behind his hand – “But my patience has limits.”

Another pause, a half-eaten biscuit, and Arthur starts again, pinching the root of his nose. “It won’t be always peaches and cream, it’s obvious, even if society says everything will be fine because we’re soulmates. How can I know that I’m doing the right thing, that it’s worth it, that I won’t regret it when this crush will have passed and I don’t know what remains.

He taps his fingers on the table, to give rhythms to the list of ifs and buts that make him wrinkle his forehead. Finally Francis sights, puts down the now empty coffee cup and brings his head closer to the other’s, in a silent invitation soon welcomed.

“It’s simple, you can’t know.”

“What a wonderful thing” Arthur hisses, sarcastic.

“But this is the interesting part.”

“So, you begin and you see how it goes? Knowing you may hit your nose and get hurt.”

Francis gets up to kneel next to Arthur, lightly touching his arm to attire his attention.

“Arthur, meeting you was the best thing that can happen to me and not just because it let me see how beautiful our world is. How beautiful its colours are. Meeting you as a person was the best thing that could happen to me.”

“You speak like a dumb who’s fallen in love!” Arthur replies, looking away.

“I am a dumb who’s fallen in love.”

“So this is it? We see how it goes?”

He lays his hands on the lap and Francis holds them in his, warm and strong. Arthur slowly turns his head, to fix his green eyes in the other’s blue ones. In them he reads sureness. Sureness and love.

“We see how it goes. Is it enough?”

Arthur nods, after a pause of reflection. Yes, for now, it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Related to my other fanfiction "It feels like enough."  
> As usual, I'm not english native speaker, so be kind for any mistake.
> 
> Come visit my tumblr: gwen-chan.tumblr.com


End file.
